The Silver Throne
by Yyunesprith
Summary: While the questing party were held captive in the bowels of the earth, Puddleglum failed to burn his foot. There was no disenchanting smell of burnt marshwiggle. The hostages, or guests, fell into a dreamless sleep that night, and the next morning was the invasion. Now, most of Narnia huddles beneath Her Ladyship's divine rule. AU, The Silver Chair.
1. Chapter 1

"Joshua."

The voice glowed when it called his name. How can a voice glow? It sounds strange to say so, but it was as if the voice itself was a flair of light spreading across his mind… rich, warm, golden light, with an undertone of green. And it was definitely his name that it was calling.

"Joshua, when are you coming?"

The voice had changed. It was a girl's—at least as old as his big sister, but so frightened, so… dependant. He could never have imagined a girl his sister's age needing him so badly.

"Joshua, a Son of Adam. His name is Salvation."

A deep, throaty male voice. Authority.

"Joshua, Joshua, Joshua…"

Voices multiplied, rang across his naked, defenseless mind. Pleading voices. Bitter or angry voices. Eager voices. Dull, sad, hopeless voices. And still the power of the first Voice's glow seared and sliced him, warmed and caressed him. And it seemed as if in the chaos of the legion of voices calling his name, there was something else that they were looking for. Something beside him and behind him. Something within the glow that was branding itself on him since the moment it had called his name.

The Voice took the burden of the voices' pleading from his shoulders, but it gave him another burden. A burden to itself. And that frightened him most of all.

"Hey, Joshie." It was a normal voice, a friendly, playful, everyday-voice. His mother's. They were sitting over a picture-book—a book of Bible stories. A man stood and carried a pole with clusters of the most massive grapes he had ever seen. He wore strange, hanging clothes with stripes on them, which reminded him of Daddy's dressing-robe. He was smiling so big. It was a smile meant for something bigger than Humongous Grapes.

"Do you know who this man is?" his mother asked. "His name is Joshua, just like yours…"

". BEEP. Beep, beep, beep…"

His mother and the picture-book and the voices were all gone. Almost.

The alarm-clock on top of his chest of drawers kept muttering at him obnoxiously. He wiped a hand across his bleary eyes and staggered over to it to bop its button, and then began to change out of his pajamas into his school clothes. He shook his head, trying to get his dark forelock out of his eyes.

That was some dream. That would be one of his holding-dreams—not something he'd talk about to people, but something he'd keep tight inside and try to remember, and wonder about when his mind wandered in classes. Like a jewel in a pirate's buried hoard.

But as he scurried out of his bedroom, carrying his shoes by their laces, he knew that the dream was not quite gone yet.

"Are you here?" He whispered.

"I am here, Joshua, my son." The glow inside answered.

The Great and Generous Supervisor grinned at the lines of Citizens passing him. He waved them along through a haze of joy. Dogs, Birds, Cats, fauns—yes, business as usual, business as beautiful usual.

He couldn't remember when he'd been so happy. When he'd begun to be so happy, rather. She had told him there was a time when he wasn't this way, when he was a dull, bored old thing with a name that sounded grey and wet and weathery. Who would ever want a life like that, he wondered? Then his grin changed to a superior smirk. Perhaps _they_ would. All of the Ordinary Rabble, the Citizens, the worker class of this fair realm. They were all so dour and humorless. Why, the Great and Generous Supervisor guessed they wouldn't even have the brains to laugh at one of His Noble Majesty's brilliant jokes!

Her Ladyship, She Who Knows All, had promised that when the most urgent work of the realm was done she would Uplift all but the bare few of them needed for maintenance to the same happy level as himself. He knew Her timing was perfect, but all the same, the Great and Generous Supervisor could scarcely wait. He felt as if he hardly had anyone to talk to except in the few minutes before and after he was Processed each weekend, and that was sad, since such a joyous thing happened as bookends on the one depressing thing left in his life. It was so good of Them to be there to talk to him when it happened, however. Her Ladyship, His Noble Majesty, or the Second Lord and Lady—one of them would always be there for him to lead him in to the Processing Chamber, and to bring him a cup of good wine and reassure him when it was over. He would be going in at the end of the Southern District Shift, when all these Citizens he was Supervising now were resting from their turns.

Life was good. The Supervisor nodded to himself, swished away a fly, and trotted into line behind the last Southern District Species Platoon on its way to Her castle.

"What is it _now_?" a girl's voice shrieked. She threw an antique dinner-platter at the head of the Stoat who had opened her drawing-room door, and the Stoat executed a well-practiced dodge, still grinning fixedly.

"My Goodman the Great and Generous Supervisor of the Southern District is here for Processing and either your Second-Ladyship or his Second-Lordship shall have to be there to see to him as She and He are busy with affairs of state, Madame," the Stoat blurted in a single breath.

"Oh. _Oh._" Her Second Ladyship grimaced, then sighed. "I guess you'll have to do it, m'lord."

"What, me? Why me?" His Second Lordship whined. "You know how I _hate_ dealing with these mundanes, even though it _is_ all for the good of Queen & Country and all that. I don't know why she has to keep the driveling, grinning little rotters around. Couldn't she have just Uplifted a few guards and given them personalities or something?"

Her Second Ladyship glared at him in consternation.

"Oh, right. Not to question Her judgment in any way, of course. She's magnificent, She's the only thing worth having in this whole rotten world. But sometimes I guess ordinary, hard-working politicians like me just can't understand Her. Why She'd make me go off as an ambassador of Her goodness to a rotten old country full of sand for a whole stinking month, for example—that's a Divine decision that's beyond mere human logic."

"My dear, _dear_ lord," Her Second Ladyship purred to him, "of course I would never even _think_ of accusing you of sedition. It's not your sort of crime." She smiled brightly. "I just wanted to give you an opportunity to make me and Her Ladyship happy, being as she's so busy and all, and I need to study up on etiquette before I accompany Her train for a visit back North this autumn…"

His face went very stiff and flat, and there was a glitter in his eyes.

"Of course, Pole," he said, and patted the Stoat on the head as he left the room. She sat down heavily to her desk, and she knew by the heat in her face that it must be going all red and splotchy. She'd only half-won this battle. Him, her own ranking partner, using the old name just to one-up her… that was indecent.


	2. The Processing Chamber

**Oh, dear. I appear to have missed my disclaimer last chapter. .**

**Narnia and all of its inhabitants who aren't my OC's are Lewis's. The scenario here is mine.**

**The Processing Chamber**

The Great and Generous Supervisor was trembling in spite of himself. He pawed the flagstone floor, and held his shoulders stiffly. His everlasting smile had managed to grow smaller and harder.

A door banged and brighter light filtered into the room, and he squinted to see who it was. Male silhouette. No cape. His Second-Lordship. The Supervisor bowed a deep, obsequious bow, ducking both his upper back and his forelegs.

"M'lord," he murmured. Then he came up, and his smile was almost back to its usual size. He gazed on the manling with hero worship in his eyes. "It is good—no, marvelous—to see you, sir."

His Second-Lordship's nose wrinkled. Had he done something to displease him, then?

"Your chair is ready," he murmured. "Let's get this thing over with, Supervisor. As soon as possible."

"Oh, of course!" the Supervisor babbled. "We wouldn't want to prolong it a moment longer, would we?"

"Come on, get in then," His Second-Lordship motioned curtly at the door. A guard slipped out from the shadows, covered in black with a visor over its eyes. It's hunchbacked form slipped almost under the Supervisor's belly for a moment, and it wiggled the key into the Chamber's door with spindly grey fingers. Strange creatures, guards. The Supervisor had the oddest feeling that they hadn't always been here, in Her fair country. Perhaps they were recently Uplifted from another place, or even created by Her from marshmud or stone. But such thoughts were for witty, intelligent folk, like Their Lordships, not for poor, half-Uplifted smiling types like him!

His thoughts were broken by the shrill creaking of the door. Its metal bulk swung inward, and he hobbled awkwardly down the stairs into the belly of the Chamber with His Second Lordship close behind. He half-wished that They had thought to make a more… inter-species convenient means of going in to be Processed. Such as a ramp, perhaps. But after all, They knew best. Doubtless it was to build character, or let the Supervisors and Citizens experience a bit of Their own lifestyle, or some such reason. He musn't think about it. He knew he wasn't smart enough.

The Supervisor grinned eagerly, tentatively at His Second-Lordship.

"You've had a good day, I trust, m'lord? I mean, not that any day in such a palace wouldn't be, but just trying to make conversation, you know…"

"Fine, fine. Just brilliant. The Sands of benighted Caloremen still haven't shaken out from my clothes, but that's no trouble at all."

The Supervisor bobbed his head in agreement.

"Far right station for you," His Second-Lordship murmured. "We've had a couple come in early, quite eager to get it over with, in case you couldn't tell. Wish they'd bother to keep an eye on the clock, or the sun, or whatever they want to use. Beastly business it can be, Processing people all out of order."

"Oh, I'll keep that in mind," the Supervisor said, "I promise you I'll never come in too early or two late. Good and timely, that's me. No inconveniences to Your Royal Persons."

"Good, that would be at least one of you."

There was silence for a while longer. Almost. Silence, and the ever-present musical hum in the air, which you didn't think about except during these times when you would rather not think of anything. And muffled, choked, angry noises, and shrill half-neighing whimpering as the Supervisor came nearer to the centaur stalls.

"Her Ladyship's Mercy," the Second Lord explained helpfully. "They make such nasty, blasphemous noises when they're in the mad period. It's less irritating for all concerned, including themselves if they only knew it, if they're kept gagged."

The Supervisor stepped into his stall, and felt a sudden shudder run down both lengths of his spine.

"It… It is awfully beastly of us, I know," he said, "common, dumb-animal beastly. I'm so glad I can't remember what's about to happen. Really, I am." He grinned fiercely, willing himself to trust in Her goodness, not to be afraid, to know that it would all be over soon.

"Back up, and lift your legs a bit. You're making this too hard," His Second Lordship snapped. The Supervisor hastily obeyed and tried to apologize. It must be _so_ trying for Them, dealing with fools like himself and greater fools like those Citizens, getting them closer to Disenchantment every week. He stood as still as he could manage as the Royal and the guard moved around him like a deliberate dance, strapping him into a sort of silver-encrusted harness. Silver chains stamped with Her image clamped onto the walls around him.

"Go on, scat," his Second Lordship motioned to the guard, who skittered clumsily away. He laid a clammy hand on the Supervisor's back, like a blessing.

"Won't be long for you now," he said. "Any second."

The Supervisor took a deep look into his Second Lordship's eyes, trying to draw encouragement from their intelligence, their strength. Then he looked ahead through the cool green glow of the lantern on the edge of his stall. He looked out across the sea of silver gleams. So many Chairs. Human-like ones for some creatures, harnesses or slings or even tight-fitting cribs—he would not say the word "cage"—for others. A thousand, or more, carefully-fashioned Disenchanting devices for all the species under Her glorious reign. His face relaxed. The beauty of it… that She would design such a system, such a path to freedom, tending over each of them until all the foul enchantments of old had been wiped away, and they were fit to be Uplifted as her own people, her courtiers, her Great Servants. Some of them, the luckiest, perhaps even to be named as Friends. However much his body feared the oncoming madness, the view of Her silver-bound mercy was always enough to give him hope. Then his body gave a sharp, sudden shudder.

"I think it's started, m'lord"—he gasped.

Then everything changed.

"Oh, I've seen them," a yellow tabby Cat hissed. "I've seen them marching from all corners of the country, shambling, unfeeling, stupid. Like she's made them dumb in their hearts, but left them everything on the outside, even their voices!" An angry yowl. "Walking dead, that's what they are." Her eyes went wide like amber marbles in her face, and her fur bristled with rage.

A Centaur, graying all through his chestnut coat and gone white in his beard, reached down a hand and touched her shoulders. There was nothing patronizing in the move, as you would see in a man and a pet. It was the touch of an old friend who knew there was nothing to say.

"Friends, I do not think it is any of Her doing that they retain speech," a Mouse spoke from atop a stump opposite them. "I think it is a sign from Aslan—a sign that our people may someday be reclaimed! I have heard it from my cousin, who heard it from his grandfather, that once a dryad friend of theirs with deep roots who lives near the palace"—

The Cat mewled disapprovingly.

"Rumors, rumors!" she said, and shook off the Centaur's hand to stalk circles around their camp. "What good will rumors do my husband, or our kittens?"

"I lost my two eldest sons to the sorceress," the Centaur's voice rumbled. "All of us have lost someone dear. But good Karripeep is right. There have been reports—which may be true. There is hope, by the grace of Aslan. Some of her people—her hostages—may still be sane."

"Even if they were," the Cat bristled, "what can we do. Once a week in some freak dungeon buried in rock. We would need Aslan Himself to break through those walls and reach them."

There was dead silence. Then Karripeep's whiskers trembled eagerly, and he brandished his neddle-slim sword.

"Of COURSE we need Aslan!" he squeaked. "And when he comes, won't She tremble! We'll all storm the castle at His back!"

The Cat sprawled in the dead leaves next to the Mouse's stump, and laid her head on her paws.

"In the meantime, tell me if you hatch a plan," she muttered under her breath. "We've no assurance he'll come while my kittens are still alive."


	3. Prisoners

**Author's note/Disclaimer: **Here I am again. Took me long enough. :p Nobody's mine except OCs, and even they will never make me a profit. Narnia belongs to Lewis, Aslan, and The Emperor Over the Sea. Conquered!Narnia is my fault. Mostly.

(…)

Fools, fools. Damnable fools, all of them.

The Supervisor was shaking all over. Sweat slicked his coat. Not-Supervisor. He wasn't that toadying idiot anymore. Oh, no. Galebreath. That has been his name. Galebreath, son of Mistborn and Glenstorm, heroes of the golden years of Caspian the Seafarer. He was born a warrior and a free Narnian, claws take Her.

And that _person_—that sick, apathetic, stuck-up slug of a Son of Adam—

"Oh, how _could_ you," he hissed down at the boy through his teeth. The boy was fiddling with the fringe on his black tunic like he had heard it a million times before, which he probably had.

"Eustace Scrubb. A 'friend of Narnia.' Phah.

I heard tales of you as a child. The way Caspian told it, you were a hero. A warrior who splintered his sword against sea-serpent's scales, a child who became a dragon and was skinned until he was a man again by Aslan Himself"—

"Don't say that name," His Second Lordship broke in, "It's crude and uneducated and… and _childish._"

Galebreath snorted.

"You _fool_. You insufferable, pitiable little human _fool._"

His Second Lordship began to whistle loudly.

"You could use more of the child in you." Galebreath's voice grew deep, soft, almost dangerously gentle. "You were a child when you were a hero. You were a child when you sailed to the Utter East, and saw the wonders of the world—when you were still a living, breathing man."

At that, Her lordling rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath about logical contradictions.

"You human, you _human_, how well did He say that merely to be of your race could shame a king!" Galebreath spat, and he could feel the spittle on his chin getting into his beard. He looked around himself at the rows on rows of gleaming, deadly devices in silver, and his eyes grew wide and frantic. "Friend of Narnia, Friend of Narnia they called you! Kin of the High King! Friend of Caspian! Into this very house they let you as a guest the year before She built Herself an abomination, and… and… you _helped_ her. You"—he almost choked on words too hot to say. Then he went cold, and his eyes narrowed and his mouth went set, and he studied His Second Lordship's bored, pasty face as if his life could depend on it. He strained against the silvery chains until they bit him, and tried to draw nearer the boy.

"And are you really so dead as all this?" he asked, "Are you really so much Her creature, or do you, too have your nights of madness? Do you hear the Lion's whisper in your dreams? Perhaps"—

The boy looked up and his face was twisted into an almost animal snarl.

"I've always been against what is called corporal punishment," he blustered, "but in a case like yours I could see how it is worth something. Actually, I'd rather like to see you flogged. I would. I'd stand here while they did it and laugh. Such insufferable pieces of twaddle as you shouldn't be allowed to live, except that when the evening's over my Lady would be left with a mound of dead horseflesh on her hands instead of a Supervisor!"

Galebreath only kept looking.

"Answer me, prig," the Second Lord squealed, "Answer me! What do you have to say for yourself?"

A pair of guards appeared on each side of the stall.

"Is M'lord well?" they asked in unison, one voice creaky as hinges and one grunting. "Is there anything we can do to serve you?" the grunter added.

"No, no," the Second Lord said offhandedly, suddenly in control of himself again. "Nothing's really the matter. You should know how it is. Only I'm a bit tardy in having this creature gagged. "

(…)

He did not know why he had let the stupid creature get under his skin. That was not how it was meant to go, anyway. It was only that sometimes it could be fun to listen to them whinge, because it helped His Second Lordship to be reminded of how superior he really was. He would never have voiced the thought aloud—although he suspected that She could have seen it in his eyes anyway if She walked by at the wrong moment—but it was also the closest this he would allow himself to a sort of rebellious kick. Letting the prisoners yammer once in awhile was Not Quite Policy, ergo, he saw it as an independent thing to do.

So why had the Centaur's words stung him?

This was supposed to have been the nice bit of the day, getting away from Her Second Ladyship's jabs. Well, not that taking care of the dirty work with mundane was particularly nice anyway, but you know. But he did not know what had gone wrong.

There was something in the back of his head. It was an annoying, niggling feeling, a bit like someone was watching him in a nightmare, waiting to attack, except that he was not quite asleep enough to believe that the nightmare was real; and a bit like seeing somebody's face and knowing that you ought to know them, but not knowing their name, or where you had met them before. He tried to shake it away, breathing deeply, and picturing a slow wash of green fire purifying the unpleasant bits in his mind. He quietly hummed a snatch of one of Her tunes, and the feeling was gone.

(…)

His Lordship knelt on the tiled floor in front on his Lady's throne. The air around them seemed to be full of a faint, sweet humming. The torches in their sconces along the wall were all lit with greenish fire, and the flickers of light and shadow along the floor caught the his eye as if they were living things creeping and scurrying around him, never quite near enough to brush his skin. The stone of the floor was so cold. It ate his legs with ice. He drew a shaky breath, and laid his head on her knee, sucking in a deep breath of her bittersweet perfume.

This—this was the smell of years of comfort between hours of torture, bound by some foul enchantment, screaming blasphemies every night as so many of their people did now. This hand, so soft and warm, first stroking his cheek, now fingering his hair, was the hand which had led him from the land of his enemies into her dimly lit havens in the womb of the earth, and then raised him up again, a conqueror.

She trilled softly above him—he could write poems on that laugh. Then she spoke.

"Have your ease, my sweet king. The nightmare is over. You are mine."


End file.
